His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) Read Online Free Page A

heritage just a bit. He would learn that soon enough.
    “I am Maeve. This,” she said, putting her arm around her little sister, “is Brighid.”
    The new earl—she refused the intimacy of thinking of him as Kieran—nodded to the young girl. Maeve noticed then that her sister stared at the Englishman with blushing approval.
    “Do you steal kisses from maidens?” Brighid asked in an uncertain whisper.
    Hellfire! The girl’s questions about men were already too much to take. She knew this audacious knave would only fuel more, and nearly groaned at the realization.
    “As often as possible,” he said, grinning. “Twice if she will let me.”
    The earl winked at her, and Brighid flushed another shade of pink, blue eyes sparkling with wonderment.
    Maeve sighed.
    “Do you call this area home?” the earl of Kildare asked, shifting his attention back to herself.
    She saw no point in lying…nor in telling the complete truth. “Aye, within Langmore’s walls.”
    His smile brightened as he reached for her hand again. “As I am headed there myself, we will likely meet again, sweet Maeve.”
    “It seems certain.” She forced a smile to hide her vexation. How dare the man use her Christian name so familiarly, speak it as if he could caress her with the sound.
    When he reached Langmore, no doubt her brother, Flynn, would adjust Kildare’s confidence a bit—and possibly his face, as well.
    At that, Maeve cringed. She abhorred fighting. Watching grown men beat upon one another like unruly children always aggravated her. And of late, Flynn had been always ready for a nasty fight.
    In this case, Maeve could see the purpose.
    Prying her hand loose from Kildare’s grip under the pretense of adjusting her wimple, she smiled.
    Unfortunately for her, he grinned back, something wicked and lopsided and full of waywardness. Against her better sense, her stomach fluttered.
    “Shall I follow you to Langmore, since I find myself lost?” he asked, voice smooth.
    “We make for the village, my lord.”
    “I see. Can you tell me how might I find Langmore, then?” he asked, his voice ripe and unbroken with charm. “I would appreciate your kind guidance, my sweet.”
    His sweet, was she? Her betrothed, Quaid, would indeed be disturbed by that. So was she, for that matter.
    And she was eager for Flynn to give Kildare the lumps he deserved. Neither Ireland—nor its ladies—would surrender to his dubious English charm without considerable fight.
    For now, she must plan, must find a way to warn Flynn of Kildare’s arrival, before the actual event.
    “Langmore, ’tis easy to find from here, my lord,” said Brighid at her side.
    When the girl turned toward the pasture-lined lane that led straight to the keep, Maeve knew she must stop her sister.
    “Aye, but you must travel on the path through yon bog,” she said, pointing to the nearby wetlands and hills.
    “The road does not lead to the castle?” he asked.
    “It does,” answered Brighid, frowning.
    “But the bridge over the River Barrow is down,” Maeve cut in. “Gone with a flood last spring. And the river’s bank is too steep for your mount, so the bog it must be.”
    Brighid stared at her as if vexed. “But—”
    “This way you will reach Langmore soon, so that you might meet Flynn, the leader of the O’Shea Fein .”
    Kildare frowned. Aye, he was surely disturbed by her use of the Gaelic, something the English always hated. Certainly he did not know the word’s meaning. What could he know if Irish kin-groups?
    As if reminded of his duty, the new earl looked toward the keep’s stone towers, rising to gray splendor against the blue sky, and nodded, suddenly sober.
    “You have my thanks, sweet Maeve. Brighid. ’Tis my hope we meet again soon.” With a courtly bow and a smile, he mounted and urged his roan toward the bog.
    Once Kildare had disappeared into the trees, Brighid asked, “Why did you lie to him about the bridge?”
    “To give us time to plan. We must